


Give a Little More

by dracoqueen22



Series: Master and Commander [3]
Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Bets, Blindfolds, Bondage, Dirty Talk, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Sex Games, Sticky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-17
Updated: 2013-05-17
Packaged: 2017-12-12 04:13:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/807099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracoqueen22/pseuds/dracoqueen22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Losing is all a matter of perspective in Jazz's opinion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Give a Little More

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fuzipenguin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuzipenguin/gifts).



> Written for fuzipenguin's palooza prompt of Blue/Jazz 'you got your work cut out for you'

“Do you think you're up to the challenge?” Jazz had said.  
  
Bluestreak had only grinned in answer, doorwings flicking upward.  
  
Which led them to here and now, Jazz standing with his arms chained above his helm, stretched high. His visor was offline and covered by a scrap of metal mesh for good measure.  
  
No peeking, Bluestreak had said.  
  
“Are you ready?” Bluestreak asked and Jazz felt the vibrations in the floor, through his pedes, the slow and steady clip of his partner circling him. Like a shark in the water.  
  
Jazz grinned, giving a testing tug to the chains and finding them solid. They were constructed to hold bigger and stronger mechs than himself. “More than.”  
  
“Good.” Bluestreak's energy field bathed him in anticipation, overlain with heated vibrations of lust. “Terms?”  
  
Jazz chuckled, shifting his weight, not that he moved much. “You get me to overload without touching me and I'll concede.”  
  
“And if I fail?”  
  
Jazz flexed his wrists, hearing the chains rattle and letting the sound echo in his audials. Something about the faint noise sent shivers straight through to his spark. “We'll figure that out later.”  
  
“If you say so.”  
  
Circle, circle, stop.  
  
Jazz wasn't Spec Ops for nothing. There was a whisper of air and sound and he knew, without sight, that his partner stood directly in front of him.  
  
Bluestreak leaned closer, the buzzing warmth of his energy field stronger and tighter. Jazz could detect the special oil he used on his guns, and the polish that Sunstreaker used on him because Sunny had few friends and spoiled the ones he did.  
  
“The game's not started,” Bluestreak said, no purred really. “How about a kiss for good luck?”  
  
Jazz tilted his face upward, for the bare feet that separated their heights. “I can't say no to you, babe.”  
  
“Mmm. I like that.”  
  
He felt the ghost of a heated ex-vent and then lips brushed against his. Only lips for that matter. Bluestreak was taking this no-touching rule quite seriously.  
  
Another shiver danced down Jazz's backstrut.  
  
There was something intensely erotic about the feel of Bluestreak's mouth against his, especially considering the sensory disconnect in that no other part of their frames was touching. Fire bloomed in Jazz's lower extremities, lubricant slicking his valve behind his panel.  
  
The kiss, chaste as it was, ended, and Jazz caught himself from chasing after Bluestreak's retreating lips.  
  
“Frag,” he breathed. “I'm almost tempted to slag the game and take you now,” Jazz said.  
  
Bluestreak laughed. “You'd have to get free of those chains first,” he teased and drew back another pace, though his energy field didn't retract. “Now, shall we begin?”  
  
Jazz sucked in a steadying ventilation. “Bring it on.”  
  
A purring rumble of amusement echoed in Bluestreak's chassis. Pedefalls vibrated through the floor as Bluestreak started to circle him again, predator around prey. His energy field released itself in slow, pulsing waves against Jazz's own. It didn't take much for their fields to sync, as long as they had been partnered.  
  
“Do you know how beautiful you look?” Bluestreak asked, his vocals tuned low and husky. “How much I want to frag you right now?”  
  
“I can take a guess,” Jazz replied and tried to focus, regulating his ventilations, keeping his calm.  
  
A firm stroke down his backstrut completely derailed his concentration. It was solid enough to feel like a physical touch but Jazz knew Bluestreak wouldn't throw the game like that.  
  
Fraaaag. When had he gotten so good at energy field manipulation? Someone must have been giving him pointers. Jazz suspected that a certain black and white mech was to blame.  
  
Jazz shivered.  
  
“I want to taste you,” Bluestreak murmured, still with that infernal circling, field rippling and throbbing against Jazz's own. “Drag my glossa down your backstrut, spread your legs, tease the rim of your valve until lubricant slicks your thighs...”  
  
“That's not going to work,” Jazz said, even as heat tiptoed down his backstrut and his innards squirmed with rising charge. “I'm the master of manipulation.”  
  
“We'll see,” Bluestreak said and a wash of his field stroked down Jazz's front in another near-tangible touch.  
  
He continued to circle Jazz, pedes making a steady beat against the floor, a two by one tempo, like a waltz. It was a bit distracting. Jazz's spark started to match the steady pulse, throb, throb, _burn_.  
  
“Or maybe you'd like me better on my knees,” Bluestreak said, his vocals a low and resonating purr. “Let me trace your panel with my glossa, see if I can override your manuals so that your spike pops into my mouth.”  
  
Yes, Jazz could imagine that quite clearly. Blue on his knees, looking up at him with those big optics, doorwings arched and quivering. No matter how often they've crossed spikes, Blue still managed to look like an innocent mech. It was part of his charm.  
  
The tightness in Jazz's internals ratcheted up a notch.  
  
There was a glancing brush against his backplate, then a deeper influx of fields against Jazz's plating, as though seeking ingress to the more sensitive substructure.  
  
“I know you like it when I use my mouth,” Bluestreak purred, and Jazz could all but hear the grin in his tone.  
  
“You use it a lot,” Jazz teased.  
  
Bluestreak laughed. “I like the practice.”  
  
Another intangible press of fields against Jazz's sides, tiptoeing down his lateral plating.  
  
“I think you like the practice, too,” Bluestreak added, and the sound of his fans clicking on filled the silence.  
  
He was aroused. Jazz liked the sound of that. He liked knowing he affected his partner, even if he was doing nothing but hanging here, trying to be seduced.  
  
Trying and succeeding actually.  
  
Heat trickled through Jazz's internals, his engine a soft purr. The press of Bluestreak's energy field was more insistent now, sliding under his plating, teasing against cables and wires, drawing out charge.  
  
Jazz twisted his wrists in the restraints.  
  
“But I like it best when I've got you pinned beneath me,” Bluestreak said, his vocals taking on a hum that seemed to resonate right through Jazz's core, rattling his spark chamber. “Like to see your visor bright and needy. See you squirming and gasping as I spike you. Watch your lubricant pool on the berth. Like to pin your hands down so you can't move. I like to watch you struggle.”  
  
Jazz shuddered, able to easily draw up images, memories of such instances. Bluestreak was bigger than him, not by so much as to be ludicrous, but enough that when they were together, Jazz was aware of the difference. Heavier, taller, broader... Jazz liked being pinned under that weight. Safe and pinned.  
  
Bluestreak's vocals dropped another register. “I love that you trust me,” he said, nearly a whisper, his energy field creeping over Jazz's frame in tiny tendrils of licking fire. “I love that you let me in. That you show me the sides no one else sees.”  
  
Jazz's vents stuttered. He sucked in several cooling bursts, not that they helped. His spike strained behind his panel, doming the metal. His valve had long since snapped open, cooler air brushing across it in teasing bursts.  
  
“I love the way your valve clutches my spike,” Bluestreak continued. “The tiny moan you make the first time I push into you. The way your backstrut arches and the way your entire frame shudders when I sink fully and hit that upper node.”  
  
Ohh. Jazz liked that, too.  
  
He liked the way Bluestreak filled him, his valve lining strained around the thick spike, modified sensory nubs that activated Jazz's own. He loved the way Bluestreak always ex-vented in a sharp burst after that first push, like he'd been holding his ventilations from anticipation. He liked the way Bluestreak went silent, as though he could only concentrate on the pleasure and words abandoned him in the wake of it.  
  
Lubricant drizzled down Jazz's thighs; he could smell it and heated metal. His glossa swept over his lips, yearning to taste something, eager to feel Bluestreak's mouth against his own.  
  
“I love that first moment, too, when you finally give in,” Bluestreak said, leaning closer but still not touching, close enough that Jazz could feel each heated burst of ventilation. “When all the tension drains out of your frame and you surrender to me. That's my favorite part,” Bluestreak said, energy field pulsing down Jazz's backstrut in a slow, steady stream. “Your surrender.”  
  
Jazz moaned, chains rattled as his entire frame jerked.  
  
That moment, too, was his favorite. When everything and everyone he was responsible for retreated to the distant corners of his processor. When he could concentrate only on desire, only the present, the direct here and now, the reality of physical pleasure.  
  
He loved the sound of Bluestreak's systems, the hiss and groan of pistons, the steady cadence of his spark beat, the increasing rhythm of his ventilations. It was a song all it's own, one Jazz could really groove to, and the beat they danced together was the best.  
  
“Now I want to see it,” Bluestreak purred, his vocals dropping into the lowest registers, that vibrate against Jazz's plating and straight through to his spark chamber. “I want you to give it to me. Overload for me, sweetspark,” he urged, energy field blanketing Jazz from helm to pede, pressing in and retreating in various rhythm, making his sensornet drizzle with charge. “Show me that surrender.”  
  
A wordless noise rumbled out of Jazz's vocalizer. His hips jerked, more lubricant dripping free with audible tinks against the floor. Pleasure throbbed through his innards.  
  
He was so close he could taste it. His calipers cycled down on nothing and he wanted Bluestreak's spike in him so badly. But he couldn't. No touching allowed. And Jazz wanted the touching, wanted to feel Bluestreak push into him, ex-vent against him, energy field pulsing around him.  
  
“I know you're close,” Bluestreak said, behind Jazz now, his ventilations bursting sharply against sensitized plating. “Give it to me, pretty one. I want to watch you come undone.”  
  
He liked that, knowing Bluestreak was watching him, feeling the weight of his partner's gaze. He could feel Bluestreak's optics tracking the trickle of lubricant down his thighs, the flaring of his plating to cool his overheated substructure, the twist and pull of his wrists against the cuffs...  
  
Jazz sucked in a ventilation, helm tossing back. Bluestreak's voice echoed in his audials, energy field surrounding him from all sides.  
  
He tried to hold it back. On the most distant edge of his awareness, he remembered that this was supposed to be a challenge. The tempting pleasure was too hard to resist.  
  
A long, firm stroke of fields dragged down Jazz's chestplate, teasing at the seam of his spark, as though to entice him with pleasures to come and Jazz lost it. He stiffened all over, pleasure crackling down his frame in bright bursts of static. He cried out, the shout echoing in their quarters, the chains rattling and joining the ruckus.  
  
“Primus, you're beautiful,” he heard Bluestreak murmuring, a warm frame instantly pressing against Jazz's front, lips smoothing up his neck cables and making Jazz shiver all over again. “I love it when you do that. Primus, I want you. I want to take you right here. Please, say yes, say yes, please.”  
  
Jazz struggled to reboot his vocalizer, arms resisting the tug of the cuffs. “Yes!” he all but shouted, tilting his helm downward, trying to capture Bluestreak's mouth. “Yes, frag it! Yes, c'mon, Blue!”  
  
Hands on his hips and Jazz pulled himself up, wrapping his legs around Bluestreak's hips. Lips covered his own, a glossa sliding inside at the same moment a thick spike pushed into his valve. Jazz moaned, valve cycling down, another smaller overload pulled from his systems.  
  
Bluestreak was ventilating at a rapid pace. This would be no slow and steady frag. Jazz could feel it. Bluestreak was already close, venting heat like a furnace, the hands gripping Jazz's hips trembling.  
  
“Primus, you're so wet,” Bluestreak said against his mouth, hips pushing hard, clanging against Jazz's, his spike raking against already sensitized nodes. “Feel so good on my spike. I could do this all orn.”  
  
“Not gonna... last that long,” Jazz teased, clamping his legs tighter, bearing down on Bluestreak's spike and drawing a yelp from his younger partner.  
  
He could feel the charge sparking on Bluestreak's spike, the way it crackled on all the nodes in his valve. Jazz shuddered, chasing Bluestreak's mouth with his own, muffling the steady stream of words.  
  
Blue's energy field was a whipstorm of desire, lashing around them, and it betrayed his level of arousal. Heat poured off his frame in waves, spike slamming into Jazz's valve, lubricant a sloppy mess between them.  
  
Jazz could feel it, swelling and growing, the rise of charge before it broke and spilled over them, Bluestreak whining into the kiss as his overload slammed into him. Bluestreak jerked, hands squeezing on Jazz's hips, grinding up and drawing a third overload from Jazz's already heated systems.  
  
It took him longer than it should to cycle back up, but by Primus, Jazz was exhausted. Bluestreak had wrung him dry.  
  
By the time he did, the chains were gone from his wrists and the metal mesh gone from his visor. Jazz booted up his optical system as he balanced unsteadily on his pedes, half-leaning against Bluestreak.  
  
“Knocked you out,” Bluestreak said smugly as he swiped a cloth between Jazz's legs, getting the worst of the sticky mess. “I win.”  
  
Vision returned and Jazz winced at the brightness of their quarters. One arm slung over Bluestreak's shoulders to help his balance. “Nope. Ya touched me.”  
  
“But it was after your first overload,” Bluestreak argued, the edges of the cloth bumping against Jazz's sensitive valve. “It counts. I win this time.”  
  
Jazz waggled the fingers of his free hand at his partner. “That wasn't part of the terms.”  
  
“We never set such specific terms,” Bluestreak retorted, nuzzling his faceplate against Jazz's. “You just don't want to admit you lost.” He chuckled, nipping at Jazz's bottom lip before pulling back. “And that pout isn't going to make me change my mind either. Trust me. I'm the best at getting my way with a pout.”  
  
“Don't I know it.” Jazz laughed, panel snicking closed as Bluestreak's cloth made a final, cleaning pass. “Got Prowl wrapped around your little finger. Sunny, too.”  
  
“It's part of my charm.” Bluestreak grinned, tossing the rag over his shoulder and pulling Jazz into his arms. “So... gonna concede?”  
  
Jazz huffed a ventilation. “Just this once,” he said. “But I still maintain that you cheated.”  
  
Bluestreak chuckled, hands smoothing down Jazz's back. “We could always try again. Just to be sure.”  
  
“Well,” Jazz said, hips rocking against Bluestreak's. “If it's the only way to be sure...” As if he'd turn down round two.  
  
Bluestreak should know well enough by now. Jazz hadn't learned yet how to say no to his partner, not now and not ever.  
  


***


End file.
